I've Come to Burn Your Kingdom Down
by Theban-Rune
Summary: He looks down at her with enraged Tully-eyes, his war-painted face speckled with blood, and he is beautiful, auburn hair shaved at the sides with the center long and braided at his back. He pulls her up by her jerkin, and she does not flinch, though his direwolf growls deeply in its throat, only keeps her eyes set on his own. Series


She travels quickly when she catches rumor of him and is the first to offer her sword to his cause, bending the knee to him and looking up to him with fierce eyes. He looks down at her with enraged Tully-eyes, his war-painted face speckled with blood, and he is beautiful, auburn hair shaved at the sides with the center long and braided at his back. He pulls her up by her jerkin, and she does not flinch, though his direwolf growls deeply in its throat, only keeps her eyes set on his own. He spits out that he will treat her just as he treats his men. He tells her, voice rough and accented with the Old Tongue, that if she fails him, falters in anyway, he will end her life with his own axe. And just like her eldest sister before her she throws herself full-heartedly into ensuring that the Tully-coloured Stark overcomes any opponent he may face.

Her jerkin and breeches are so coated in blood that it will not come out, no matter how hard she scrubs, so she replaces her jerkin with the hides and pelts that the Skagosi wear and paints their war paint on her face. He compliments her only once, after she runs down a turncloak and kills him without so much a misplaced blink.

They slaughter the Boltons and all those in the North that have aligned themselves with them. The Snarling Wolf will take no begging, will hear no pleading. If he hears anything that while Lords are on their knees before him, it was only his own rage.

It is when they reach Torrhen's Square, after a particularly bloody battle still running down those who have wronged him, that he stalks to where she will lay for the night on the edge of camp, blood sill unwashed from his skin. She is caught off guard and he takes the time to throw her down on the furs she's made her bed. He's just lowered himself to the furs when she shoots out a foot to shove him forcefully back with a low grown. He spits a curse in the Old Tongue at her in response and throws himself atop her. She can hear Shaggydog somewhere just beyond the light of the dying fires.

They struggle against one another, and it is not until she flips him onto his back and straddles his hips that he stills, if only momentarily. She crashes her mouth against his and tears the pelts from his chest, blood singing in her veins as it must be singing in his own. Digging her nails into his flesh with one hand, she undoes his breeches with the other. He pulls away and reaches up to pull her own clothes away from her. Their fellow warriors continue to slumber, some stirring or mumbling in their birth-tongues.  
They have a slight struggle with her breeches, which ends in their ruin by his wild hands.

Not once does she let him allow him to change their positions, she will not let him have control in this, and when she lowers herself onto his hard manhood, feels her maidenhead break, and takes him into her in his entirety in one fell swoop, she does not break eye contact. He snaps his head back, a sound erupting from his lips before he kills it. He holds her hips in his hands and thrusts into her without a care, and she meets him thrust for thrust, never looking away.  
It does not take long for him to find his release within her, howling as he does so. She slumps against him, eyes finally looking away as she rests her forehead on his sweat coated shoulder. Once he has caught his breath he pushes her off of him and goes about getting redressed. He does not look at her once and leaves her laying on her furs when he is fully clad in his pelts and breeches. She redresses herself then, ignoring the blood on her thighs. She ties her breeches together with with skins before pulling her furs around her and falling into sleep.

They continue their killing and the fucking becomes part of their routine. He only comes to her after battles, and she never lets him mount her, though he does try on more than one occasion.

It is when she finds she cannot keep her breakfast one morning that she knows his babe is growing inside of her. She knows she should not battle. But the thought of abstaining from battle chills her blood. She fights alongside him as she always had, though she is far more careful in choosing her opponent than she ever has been before. Where she would once charge in blindly, she now takes a moment to observe then decide on who she will kill before focusing on just that man. If he learns of her condition he will surely end her as he'd once promised.

He goes to her immediately after battle, coated in blood as usual and showing his teeth in a dark mock of a smile. He is surely shocked when she fights him, refusing to let him attempt to lay with her. When he pulls her pelts from her, rage shining bright in his Tully-eyes, she curls herself to protect her belly, an attempt to hide its subtle swelling. His snarl dies before it can leave his lips and he snatches her arms from her abdomen. The rage that is always in his eyes clouds with something she cannot name. He drops her arms and a hand ghosts over the handle of one of his axes.

She closes her eyes and waits for the steel to bit into her flesh and end her as he had promised it would. She forces her mind blank and breaths calmly.  
The axe does not come within five-and-ten heartbeats and she opens her eyes, glances up to see him standing above her. He throws his own pelt to her and then backs away from her.

"Leave."

And she does.

Lyanna Mormont runs from the Snarling Wolf as fast as her legs can carry her, carrying what little belongings she has.

She runs until she cannot see the battlefield they'd fought on, until she cannot hear their rejoicing, until she near collapses. She washes her war paint from her skin as soon as she finds a stream, scrubbing until her face stings.

She hears of the Snarling Wolf on Bear Island as her belly grows big with child - her sisters do not ask and she does not tell. He is painted as a bloodthirsty monster by most, a misunderstood savior by others. Once he has killed all those who'd wronged him, his family, the Skagosi return to their island, taking with them the things they had claimed as their own. She is sure he'd gone with them.

She births her son during a snowstorm, shouts swallowed by the winds. Her sisters take turns holding her hands within their own and breathing words of confidence to her. He slides forth from her thighs unbreathing and she feels tears begin to form in her eyes before Lyra swats him on his back and his shrill cry fills her ears. Once the afterbirth has come out as well and her babe is cleaned she is given him. He's a small, red-faced thing, tuft of dark auburn hair on his head and tiny hands flailing for her.

She names him Osric and carries him close to her wherever she may go.

She sets herself to becoming the best mother she can be for her son and thinks of nothing else. She does all she can do and then some. She puts her war-time behind her and focuses solely on her son.

The Snarling Wolf comes to her with his direwolf and demands she go with him to Skagos. And something inside her hurts deeply, for she wants to but knows she cannot. She thinks he means to argue, to drag her away with him, but Osric cries for her, and she goes to him as quick as she can. When she turns back to see the youngest Stark, she finds he has already gone. Or perhaps he was never there. She does not know and instead soothes Osric back to sleep.


End file.
